


And I Clothed Myself in Armor

by theoreticalpixy



Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Coming of Age, Gen, Gen Fic, growing up fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-18 18:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoreticalpixy/pseuds/theoreticalpixy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sif used to dress to hide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Clothed Myself in Armor

**Author's Note:**

> I use the daughters of Aegir as Sif & Heimdall's mothers

Her first armor is hodge podge, pulled together from pieces of friends and family. Stolen and lent and cobbled together so she may pretend to be a boy and escape the notice of their fighting instructors. Trousers from Loki, a jerkin from Balder over one of her own worn out tunics. Thor finds her arm guards and gives her an outgrown mail shirt. She belts it all in place and braids her hair to more boyish style. Sif hides under a cap stolen from Loki’s cast offs and tries to avoid attention.

The ruse doesn’t last very long, the world of the Aesir is small at times and too interconnected. Her absence in sorcery studies is noted and eventually they find her. That she is not immediately betrayed by her all seeing brother means too much for her to understand yet.

Their ploy was one of children and hope. Hope and a foreseeable end; at least to any with eyes. But it buys her long enough that she is ready to fight on when the trick is discovered. Sif has tasted the lure of combat and will not give it up. She cannot give it up. They tell her to leave and she refuses. Sif holds her chin high and proud and glares at her instructors from under the cap even as her stomach tightens. Her mothers had called her stubbornness a curse before, but now it is pure blessing.

She shows up each day, ignoring the continuous reprimands. Some of their teachers relent. They have arguments about war and tradition and Valkyries and more things Sif doesn’t know much of. Half of the boys won’t spar with her now, but she only resolves to make better use of those who do.

Sif stops hiding her hair. It swings free and golden in a ponytail as she practices. No cap or helmet hides her face. She is as good as her male fellows and she is young and angry. Let them all know that this girl is the one beating them.

  
She adjusts the gear as she become more familiar with fighting, finds what piece she wants hard plate for and where she does better with mail or leathers. She sends the boys with coins when she needs a real purchase; too many of the smiths will deny her. Over the months she figures out which friendly faces will help her. What person will make her good gloves and which will sharpen her sword without undue extra charge.  
Her mothers objections are swayed to reluctant support between pleading and arguments and demonstrations of skill and dedication. She does extra chores and is never late to practices or lessons or important events - even if that means she shows up a little dust covered. She has to sacrifice time chasing her friends around. Time that she’d rather be elsewhere when she must dress like a Lady and behave to prove her training has not ruined her. 

But there are rewards. They bring out old pieces and garments for her to tear apart and add into her wardrobe. She holes up in her room sewing together new arm guards and plotting the best uses of her pile of treasure. That’s what it is to her, precious. A pile of odds and ages and it is the best present she can count. Sif salvages some embroidery from an old tunic and adds it to a jacket. It feels right, these bits of her family history she can wear with pride as she writes the next chapter.

Somewhere in between the loss of her golden locks and the stirrings of young love she starts to leave childhood. Her body changes and her armor goes through another re-haul. She forgoes hard plates completely, mail and jerkin easier to fit to her changing figure. Her leggings all become too short but she hides them under tall boots until she can find a new pair how she likes. She pulls the embroidery from the now too small jacket and sews it inside a vest. A secret for her to know.

Her next name day, though several have already passed since she took up sword, brings a set of armor from her mothers. A full set, a proper one. Like the ones the boys get to wear sometimes while she’s stuck in dresses. Sif stands stiff and gaping at the gift. It is her first real set, a set that is hers and not meant for another. That is even a complete set. Her family’s support has been variable at times but this show is more than she would have asked for. The metal is gleaming and unused, the leathers unstained. She is overwhelmed by the beauty of it.

Sif thanks them all profusely and promises to fight hard and learn carefully. She models it for them and is passed around in hugs to her embarrassment. Tears glisten in her mother Uor’s eyes and she can only hug her tighter in return when her tongue fails her.  
It seems over then Hronn comes carrying a sword.

“Your brother sent this for you as well.” The sword isn’t new, though cleaned and shining anyway. This sword belonged to her brother in his younger years, she can tell that much before being told. Heimdall is centuries older than she, it is a beautiful relic and still fit to battle. And he sent it. He sent it to her, trusting her with it.

She visits him early that next morning, unable to conjure words that seem enough thanks. It is too hard to articulate. She is starting to be old enough to understand just how many times he has looked away from her antics, protected her in his own silent way. Sif has not the right words, but Heimdall understands. She hugs him, tight as she can even though she may be only chest high. An arm clasps her back firmly, a squeeze to her shoulder and a murmur of “You’re welcome little sister.”

Sif spends half the afternoon passing her new sword around with Thor and Balder, all of them ogling and comparing while Loki rolls his eyes and tells them they’re boring.

She is precious about the new armor and weapons at first. The full set is too much for practice but she uses select pieces to create her new practice garb. It’s a little masculine, but part of her likes that, part still has too much trouble with the naysayers and so doesn’t mind hiding. Her hair has been black for months now and it would be a lie to say she is not holding her head a little lower in the aftermath.

It’s easier to keep up from there. Each year less of Asgard objects to her commitment of battle and war. She does not have to bribe anyone to sell her weapons or armor or rely on extras from her friends. She has to change out pieces constantly as she grows, for a short time towering over the boys in her group before they start their own changes only to tower over her in the end.

Years and years later, she realizes one day that the changes have near stopped, that the face in the mirror is more woman than child or teen. Her eyes blink to her armor, piled high on her bed. There’s a flicker of idea there, an awareness that she sits on for several weeks as she inches closer to being of age.

There are whispers, excitable and suspicious, of what her title is to be. Because not all gods are named at birth, and Sif’s title has never been a surety. Though now it seems sure. Goddess of War. The very idea itches with excitement at her fingertips. Sif stomps down her hopes, just in case. She doesn’t worry much over it. She can’t. She will take what title they give. Besides, if they do not give her a title she wants then she will just make her own.

Privately, very privately, Sif thinks that she is very good at making her own things. Her own destiny, her own path.

As the days inch closer Sif scratches out ideas. Her skill of pen is rarely practiced except in map making but she keeps at it, etching away in stolen moments between training and quests. A month before her name day she brings the drawings to Brokk the dwarf smith. He fixes her images and adds and corrects her until they have an agreed upon plan. One of his fellows is conscripted for the leather and cloth work. They strike the deal.  
She keeps her plans under wraps, though her friends pester her over her absences to fit and test the armor. Sif says nothing, guarding her secret tight and turning Thor’s inquiries back upon him or distracting with teasing and fighting.

It’s ready a week early and it nearly kills her to keep it hidden until the feast.

The days inch by slowly. Creeping steadily closer but still alluding her. She trains hard. She has responsibilities overseeing the youngest in sword practices and she runs them hard through their drills. Then she practices even harder on her own. Two days before her name day she wrestles with Thor. She’s brutal and he matches her vigor. He hesitates at first, he often does with her, but before long they’re grappling without mercy in the dust.

She twists, tears away and out of his lock and Thor pulls back with a fistful of cloth and looks apologetic a moment. Her vest is torn in pieces. Sif can only laugh, “Keep it.” She pulls off the half still on her and adjusts her undershirt. Well, it was soon for the scrap bag anyway.  
He doesn’t seem to see the humor but shrugs and it’s all forgotten when she tackles him again.

When the day arrives she readies in solitude and to see the full set upon her feels right in the most fantastic way. She will be honored this day, finally of age and will receive her title. Sif adjusts each piece minutely, carefully, a flit of nerves spurring her to keep checking. The buzz more from excitement than worry.

This armor is exactly what she wants, what she needs. The steel fitted and woven around her body, neither the curve of muscle or femininity hidden. Her arms stay half bare, bracers and bands and plates spaced out for best defense and movement. The layers of leather and mail peek out, skirting at the bottom of the steel corseting. The armor is not ashamed of her womanhood, nor is she, after so many years of fighting against the men of Asgard. She keeps her hair down, the dark locks worn as proudly as the layers of armor.

Sif will arrive at her feast as herself, denying no part of her.


End file.
